


Written in the Stars

by Rosa_Cotton



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan (2003), Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Attraction, Beginnings, Cages, Cinderella Elements, Confessions, Denial, Drama, F/M, Fairies, Falling In Love, Films, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flowers, Fluff, Grumpy Old Men, Happy, Language of Flowers, Leaving, Nicknames, Opposites Attract, Peter Knows, Peter Pan film, Peter is a movie star, Peter's swept off his feet, Pining, Plans, Promises, Questions, Romance, Secret Admirer, Shyness, Small Towns, Soldiers, Surprises, Unexpected Visitors, Unseen, Watching, Wendy tries out for his movie, Young Love, all the girls admire Peter, and Tiger Lily and Tinker Bell too, auditions, curious Peter, helper, nervous Wendy, peter is peter, shy Wendy, silly Peter, surprised Peter, unimpressed Peter, unwanted visitors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosa_Cotton/pseuds/Rosa_Cotton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three beginnings Peter and Wendy never had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Future

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Peter Pan_ , all characters, places, and related terms belong to J.M. Barrie.

The small town is bursting with unusual excitement at this early morning hour. Shouts, orders, laughter, greetings fill the main square. The regiment is preparing to leave to join the rest of the army headquartered in the capital. All the townspeople have come out to see the officers off, filled with fevered patriotic pride. The men in blue say goodbye to family, friends, and loved ones.

Among the bustling crowd are Wendy and her brother John, fifteen and fourteen, respectively. They easily slip away from their Aunt Millicent in all the excitement to get a close look at the cannon in the middle of the square, which will be taken into battle. The two are hailed by friends already admiring the weapon. It is so big, dark, solemn, seeming to understand more than anyone present of the task before it. A few of the foolish boys proudly rest their hands on it before being shooed away by the soldiers readying the cannon.

Wendy’s attention is drawn from admiring the cannon when a familiar crow pierces the air amidst all the noise. It only takes the girl a few moments to pick out a certain youth among the sea of soldiers: while he is nearly as tall as her brother, his face, framed by unruly blond curls, appears younger, his smile always cocky and twinkling eyes greener than the grass she loves to run through. A second time he throws his head back as a proud crow escapes his lips. And (of course) the girls surrounding him clap with delight and vie to gain his sole attention. 

He seems so excited by the order to leave, to march to the capital, his manner cocky and conceited. He can barely keep still; if he were able, she thinks, he would fly to the capital. He basks in the attention of the village girls who shamelessly flirt and praise him, admiring him in his blue uniform. 

Wendy cannot identify what it is that makes her watch him. Ever since he arrived, at the head of his group, little over a fortnight ago, her gaze has lingered on him more and more. Observed how he beholds the world with unbounded gayness. Takes part in the younger children’s games of tag and pretend. Tells the older girls and boys about the adventures he’s had. Jokes with his friends. Perhaps it is the air about him she has sensed at times… Like he is above all this…

Yet, naturally, he has never seen her, always at her aunt’s side, her hands buried in her plain blue frock, watching the bolder girls come up to him with their bright smiles and sparking eyes. Shake his hand, ask his name, make him laugh, praise his crow. She has never had the courage to approach him. She could not act like the other girls. But if she were brave enough to speak to him, she would ask him about the drawings he’s made for the children, of small beings peeking out of flowers or sitting on blades of grass, the tips of their ears pointy and wings on their shoulders. “Fairies…” one of her girl friends had breathed, showing her a drawing her little sister had been given. And a foreign, wonderful thrill had raced through Wendy’s body at the word. (And that very afternoon instead of making crowns out of daises as she wove stories for her friends, she unsuccessfully attempted to make a winged being with the flowers.) The memory causes the girl to now shiver. 

A sudden call for the troops to assemble is heard, and a roar goes up from the crowd. Wendy jumps, brought back to earth by the shout and her brother impatiently tugging on her arm to get her attention.

“Hurry, Wendy!” John cries. They must be quick to be sure to have a good view as the regiment marches off, and so they run toward where Aunt Millicent stands, holding the hand of their little brother, Michael. 

Filled with renewed excitement regarding the present, Wendy follows John quickly, running by officers and villagers, only to suddenly stumble a step or two back as her hand is unexpectedly grasped. She whirls around and freezes, surprised. That soldier – boy – is swinging their clasped hands back and forth, gazing at her with a small smile and clear eyes that take in everything. Returning his gaze, she feels like she is falling into a sweet abyss. Her blue eyes widen when he draws her nearer to him and brings his face close to hers, his smile growing. 

“Do not forget me!” 

“Please be careful,” she stammers, having trouble swallowing, the world spinning around her, them. 

His expression becomes almost offended. “I shall be back,” he promises. “Then I’ll show you—”

“Captain Pan!”

The boy lifts his head with a scowl and nods stiffly to a commander standing nearby. Uncertainly Wendy tries to free her hand from his – only for him to tighten his hold. His scowl melts away as he focuses on her once more. The girl cannot interpret the expression on his face as he studies her for a moment before nodding. She looks down when she feels something pressed into her free hand and discovers a small parchment with a drawing of a tiny girl with wings and pointy ears. 

“Oh,” and her blue eyes meet waiting green ones. “Thank you, Captain Pan.” 

“Peter,” he corrects.

“Thank you, Peter,” she says shyly.

His face glows and he tucks some wayward brown strands of hair behind her ear. “I’ll return for you, Wendy-lady,” his tone is assuring.

Then he inclines his head, gently kissing her cheek. Drawing back, he observes her shining eyes and rosy cheeks. And he smiles, reading her answer in that blush.


	2. East to West

The loud cry of seagulls circling above the lone cottage shatters the quietness and daily routine of the tiny island. The woman working in the vegetable garden shields her eyes from the sun as she gazes upward. The girl spinning in her room pauses in her work and her humming ceases. Grumbling to himself, the old man pokes his white head out a window, cups a wrinkled hand to one ear, and listens carefully to the birds’ call as they circle a last time before continuing their flight over the sea.

_He follows us, he follows us, he follows us_ , and their message grows fainter.

The old man wrinkles his nose and shuts the window, murmuring under his breath as he crosses the room and hurries down the narrow stairs as swiftly as he can without tripping over his long beard. “Of course, I thought there was a change in the air, knew soon… Yet he _could_ have still been more considerate. Oh, dear, there will hardly be time to ready The Helper, or to warn The Housekeeper—” His bushy eyebrows draw together. “Hey! Prepare early tea! Include sweet rolls and strawberries. No! Blueberries, blueberries!” he bellows to the woman who has just entered the cottage.

She throws up her hands, knowing what is to come, and scurries to obey. And things have been so peaceful…

The old man flits about, tidying and re-tidying things as they catch his eye. In half an hour his Housekeeper and Helper will begin to make his home all nice and clean, as they do every day. But the seagulls have made clear it is not to be so today. “Oh my. Oh dear, oh dear, dear,” he repeats to himself, unsuccessfully attempting to smooth his beard, growing more and more flustered.

He will once again be host to his strange, magical guest. It has been fifty years and past since he last had this pleasure. Only today he looks forward to the visit with anything but pleasure. He desires this visit to be over as soon as possible. It is not that he does not welcome visitors, nor dislike his guest. (Never mind he is still miffed that over a century ago his then present Helper, a very spirited boy, had been tempted to return with the youth to his world.) 

No. Simply put, he has never had a girl serve as his Helper before (and would be hard pressed to explain exactly how it came to pass), and is reluctant to introduce the two, as is custom. This child is so different from ones he’s had in the past. Countless times The Housekeeper reports finding the girl up late at night gazing out her window. Often she pauses in whatever task she is doing and turns her face toward the island that is a tiny twinkle across the ocean. Her head’s full of dreams. The old man compares her to a caged bird longing to be free to fly.

Yet surely his guest will not extend to her his offer as he has to each child on previous visits. What use would he have of her? There are no girls where he comes from, except for his blasted fairy. (“Please do not let her be coming as well!” he pleads with a wring of his hands.) His band, fighting with the pirates, being the center of that place…surely it must be enough for the lad not to be wanting? The old man shakes himself and straightens to his full height, ashamed of his behavior. “Truly,   
my nerves are running away from me. It will go well and quickly,” he reasons.

However, he cannot help swallowing hard when shortly after, there is a rap on the door; and a moment later, his Housekeeper shows in his guest: Peter Pan. 

“Hallo,” the curly-haired, skeleton-leaf-clad boy says in greeting, fists resting on his hips, crossing his legs Indian style as he floats into the air.

“Young Pan, welcome.” The old man dips his head. “How nice to see you again.” 

The boy’s attention focuses on the long white beard brushing the floor; a cocky smile spreads over his lips and he laughs, “How long it is!” The old man’s smile tightens. His guest is still as young, cocky, and carefree as he remembered. He waits until The Housekeeper has brought in all the refreshments before asking if he will not sit down and have some tea.

“But there are three chairs,” Peter comments while settling in one. “And three cups,” he adds, ignoring the little plates on the tray and taking a handful of blueberries. He gazes quizzically at his uncomfortable host. 

“Aye,” comes the slow answer.

“Why?”

“Oh, well—” he fishes for words.

“Is there to be another joining us?” 

“My little Helper,” the old man admits, his nerves returning. There can be no further delay as Peter, in a tone used when acting as Captain, asks about the child. Nothing is to be done except to return the teapot to the tray, rise from his seat, and call her. “Helper? Helper! Come join us,” he orders.

He feels a bit of ease when, after several silent, waiting moments, the girl enters the room quietly, shyly, and looks at their visitor almost fearfully; this is the first time she has ever seen a boy. Young Pan, in turn, regards her with surprise and perhaps a bit of distaste, taking in her simple frock and brown hair hanging freely about her shoulders. The old man nearly sighs in relief at the new tension in the room. Perhaps he has worried for nothing.

“Allow me to introduce my Helper. This is our guest,” he makes the traditional introductions.

Peter bows stiffly, his uncertainty obvious. She curtsies as best she can and moves to the chair farthest from him. Her hands shake as she accepts the cup the man gives her and keeps her gaze directed to the floor. Suddenly feeling quite cheerful, the old man carries the conversation, for his Helper speaks not a word and Peter Pan is almost as quiet, darting occasional suspicious glances towards her. He talks about his island, the weather, the ocean, the seagulls, all which are greeted with nods and short replies. 

“It was not too tiring a journey for you, I trust,” he inquires, sipping his tea.

“No,” his guest says warmly, with some of his old conceit. 

“Where do you live?” the question is asked softly.

Both the old man and Peter turn to the girl, surprised.

“Neverland, of course,” the boy replies after a moment.

The girl’s eyes widen, and a light the man has not ever noticed fills her face. “You are Peter Pan?” There is a note of dawning awe in her voice.

The boy straightens in his chair. “Aye,” he confirms proudly.

She confesses, “I-I have wondered what it is like, Neverland. Second to the right…” she trails off.

“And straight on till morning.” Peter looks at her fully, leans forward in his chair (she mirrors him), and they are off, talking of anything and everything pertaining to Neverland. Their voices fly and ring about the room, she asking questions, he answering in great detail. His hands animate and her eyes take in, understand, everything. 

And the old man can only sit back and observe, stunned and displeased by this change between the two; in all his many years he has not seen Pan like this with any of his previous children -- Joy, as he’s sometimes called. And Helper has never appeared so dreamy and attentive. The man’s mind spins, wondering just how she knew of Neverland and Pan. It was a secret always carefully guarded from the children in his service. How then…?

“…One for every boy and girl. Mine is a great lady, Tink. And—” Peter breaks off, and studies the girl curiously. “What is your name?” he questions.

She answers, blushing lightly, “Wendy.”

“Wendy,” he tries it out, tilting his head to one side. 

His eyes are a tad too intrigued, stars daring to come out and twinkle, and hers too admiring for the old man’s comfort. The boy is providing for her a glimpse of the wonders beyond this place, and she, whom it is hard to keep bound here, may unconsciously try to spread her wings. It is time for him to step in. Bring this all to an end.

“Oh!” he exclaims, noisily putting his cup on the tray. “It is getting late!” He is not noticed, or else ignored.

“Wendy, would you like to visit Neverland someday?” the half-expected offer comes. The youth appears almost hopeful. His whole being seems to glow as he describes what he will show her, all the fun she shall have. “Say you will!”

And her face is so bright as she listens, an ecstatic “Oooo!” escaping her.

“I’m afraid I cannot allow that,” the old man interrupts again, calmly.

Oh! The “put out” scowl he receives from Peter. Wendy’s excitement slowly changes to confusion as her gaze turns to him. The man fights not to smile. 

“Why not?” the boy demands, gnashing his first teeth.

“It will not do.” He goes on, “The journey would be too long and tiring for her. She is small, not as strong as your boys. You’ve never had a girl in your band. Really, I would not be able to spare her.”

His guest’s expression grows as dark as a storm cloud. Before he can protest, however, the girl speaks. 

“No, you do need me to help,” she submits, though disappointed. “Thank you kindly, though,” she says to Peter. She knows how to obey.

Running his hand through his beard, the old man observes young Pan with grim satisfaction. He blinks at Wendy, obviously not understanding how she can refuse his offer. Silently he leans back in his chair and finishes his tea; his body is turned away from the others. His displeasure is clear.

“I should be going,” he at last informs his host coolly. He rises and bows.

“Thank you for visiting,” the old man rises with him. “It is always a pleasure.” And he puts a hand on the lad’s shoulder to see him out.

His Helper stands up as well. She asks, sadly, “Must you really be going?”

Gazes of blue and hazel meet, linger. Something in the air shifts.

“I must,” he answers, his mood not as cool towards her. Wordlessly she nods and lowers her head. “But,” and here he moves to take her hand in his, “I will visit again, Wendy.”

He is rewarded with a shy smile from her. 

The old man masks a laugh with a cough. Pan has never met any of his children twice.

And then he is gone, sweeping out of the cottage with a crow and his first teeth flashing, leaving behind his host’s overgenerous well wishes and Wendy’s gentle farewells. The Housekeeper is called and removes the tea things. The Helper is dismissed and returns to her work, lightness in her step.

The old man watches at a window a long time after Peter Pan has flown out of sight. Slowly he nods to himself. His first order of business will be to bar the girl’s window. Somehow he senses that the memory of this visit will not fade for her but linger, even beckon to her. And young Pan returning! The man chuckles to himself. Well, he is strange and magical and _forgetful. Yet there had been something in his tone…_ , a voice whispers in his ear. The old man’s eyes flash sharply. _I would like to see him try_ , he thinks to himself. The insolent youth will not steal this child from under his nose. He shall not be so careless again. 

“I would like to see him try,” he states aloud and firmly closes the window.


	3. Waltz of the Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: A second beginning set in the same universe as chapter one, "A New Future."

It was during the blur and hum of excitement after the regiment entered the village, people welcoming and some of the young girls giving out mayflowers to the soldiers, that Peter had first laid eye on her. Mouse-like she seemed, ducking her head shyly as she passed out her gift, taken with not a word and barely a glance, and hastened on with her task, slipping from sight. Not at all like the other girls who often lingered with a soldier (eyes fluttering, smile inviting, shifting daringly close) and received an interested second glance and teasing word. 

He did not think of her again until, as if by magic, she was there, stammering and nervously offering her mayflowers. He and his friends laughed at her, taking the blossoms and moaning about their luck at not being welcomed by any of the prettier girls, unmindful as she shrank within herself. Peter’s laughter died in his throat when he carelessly held out his hand for a flower and a pair of light blue eyes rose up to meet his own green ones. For a moment he felt he was flying back home (how long had it been?), and the sensation left him breathless. 

The loud laughter and questioning if he was so intimidated by a little mouse jerked him to the present, and he realized they both had frozen, staring. His smirk lacked its cockiness as the blushing girl shoved a flower into his hand and fled. Irritated by the continuing jokes at his expense, he threw his head back and crowed loudly. When the lads cheered and he became swamped by young girls, he grinned widely.

As the girls fought for his attentions, one told him, “Pay Wendy no mind, has her head in the clouds she does,” before presenting him with a flower. Puzzled, the boy discovered that instead of a mayflower, he held gloxinia in his hand.

~~~ 

When Peter entered the meeting hall which served as the regiment’s mess hall for dinner on the second night of their stay, a sprig of fern was at his setting, peeking out from under the napkin. He wrinkled his nose uncertainly. The old woman who oversaw the meals had insisted the soldiers always eat at the same place; it must have been deliberately left for him. _Why? Who left it?_ the questions danced in his mind as he furtively tucked the plant carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket. 

Later in his room, as the others slept or had not yet returned from playing cards, the lad sat by the window, turning the fern over in his hands. His expression was a mixture of indifference and puzzlement. He never cared for flowers and plants, found them to be quite boring actually. Yet it made him think of sneaking through the underbrush, anticipating the surprise ambush his band would pull off. And there was something about the fern that tugged at his memory -- what, he could not figure out. 

~~~ 

The fifth evening he purposely arrived early (no, it had nothing to do with the mystery of the flowers at his setting each night) and discovered the old woman and her helpers still setting the tables. He mumbled an apology and half crashed into a girl carrying a stack of plates as he turned to go, sending her white bonnet flying and a bunch of flowers falling from her apron pocket. Peter steadied her and found himself face to face with the shy little girl from that first morning. He had not been aware she assisted at the mess hall. She looked at him aghast, and her apology was cut off by the old woman’s scolding. 

Watching her hurry across the hall to the table the woman stood by, the boy shook his head and retrieved the flowers from the ground. Goldenrod, flowering almond, dandelion, and lilac made up the small bunch. By the time Peter rescued the girl’s bonnet from the floor, his heart had ceased its racing and he approached her. A corner of his mouth tugged upwards at how she started when he reached her side and with mortification thanked him, accepting back her things. He nodded, surprising himself as he called her “little mouse,” and beat a hasty retreat under her stare and the heat rising in his cheeks. 

Agrimony waited for him when he returned. This time he was not quick enough to hide the yellow blossom away, and was asked if he now had a secret admirer in addition to his flock of potential sweethearts. He laughed while denying it. 

Yet there was an unusual thoughtful air about him as he put the agrimony, besides the fern, gardenia, and lily of the valley, between the pages of his book, faintly recalling parts of a story told by the queen long ago. And when he fell asleep, instead of the serving maid with dark eyes and red lips whom attempted to steal his flower and a kiss – and failed on both counts – it was of hair brown as soil, eyes like the sky, and flying amongst the stars which haunted his dreams.

~~~ 

The next few days he was surrounded even more by the village girls with their flirting, flattering, and teasing. There were teas, fruit and baked goods given, locks of hair, offers to do his mending, new handkerchiefs. Naturally, Peter basked in the attention (who wouldn’t?), amused by the competition to gain his sole favor. His smile was cocky, stance confident and conceited, crow loud and proud. He exchanged jokes with one, a secret with another (but never _that_ one), danced twice with this one, and drew a picture for that one. 

Always somewhere in the corner of his vision and back of his mind was the little mouse-like girl. He never encountered her at the mess hall. Yet he had noted her at the side of a stiff woman (her aunt, he had been told) going down the other side of the street. How her face was open and free when with her friends, her shyness and fear melting away. The skillfulness of her hands at making crowns with flowers. How she wove stories from the air. (Peter thought she told the best stories.)

Then, despite his best efforts, his crow would not be quite as confident, his laugh half-hearted, and his heart would race to a beat he had not heard in a long time. Never had he approached her. She was strange and he did not know quite what to make of her. The closest he dared was during her stories to the children, concealed in the shadows in the back. No, he was not scared of her, nor fleeing from her. She was a little mouse, and he had faced greater, more terrible things than that! 

Of course he did not notice her there in the background as he played pretend with the children, the almost understanding light in her eyes as he drew winged beings on parchment, or the rare occasion when she was among the older lads and girls listening to him telling of his adventures. And he most certainly did _not_ feel an unidentifiable pang when, as he had at least one girl on his arm, she passed by without acknowledging him at all, walking beside a dark-haired boy. 

The following night Peter was in a bad temper. While that boy had hugged the little mouse for a long moment, and there had been no flower at his place tonight, those things had nothing to do with his mood. (Though the former was strange and the latter boring and silly.) Scowling, he took the agrimony, fern, gardenia, lily of the valley, orange blossom, saxifrage, sweet william, and scarlet zinnia from his book and started toward the roaring fireplace. 

Somewhere, it was hard to know if it was distant or near, seemingly a chorus of twinkling voices cried, “Don’t, Peter!”

The boy paused.

~~~ 

The afternoon sun found Peter lounging by a stream, oblivious to the children playing in the nearby field and girls laughing as they made crowns with flowers. Lips tugged downward and eyes dim, the boy twirled a daisy between his fingers. 

Surprisingly, it was a small squeak that broke through the heavy cloud hanging over the boy. Head jerking up, he discovered the little mouse standing a few feet away, a basket on her arm, looking like a rabbit startled by a hunter. Sitting upright, the boy returned her gaze until she hesitantly stepped closer. He raised an eyebrow, curious that she had not already fled. 

Reaching his side, she quietly wished him a happy May Day, took a crown of honey flowers from her basket, and carefully placed it on his head. Before she took more than a step back, Peter without a word swiftly extended to her the daisy he held. Pausing for an instant, the girl accepted it with a whispered thank-you. She studied his innocent expression for a moment, gave a faint shake of her head, and rushed off, calling over her shoulder in response to his calling her “little mouse” that her name was Wendy. Peter simply laughed. 

~~~ 

The next day Peter sat in the midst of the children during the girl’s storytelling. When she reached the part about Cinderella arriving at the ball, he piped up that she found herself surrounded by pirates. The little mouse had blinked at him. Barely missing a beat she started to describe the pirates Cinderella encountered. When the story’s end was reached, with the two of them taking turns as the narrator, Cinderella had defeated the pirates, and she and the prince went off adventuring. There were cries for another story, and, with small smiles exchanged between the two young people, the children were entertained with more adventurous fantasies. 

When they parted after the last child had left, with pleadings for the two of them to tell stories again, their faces were bright with a silent agreement. She called him Peter. He bowed over her hand while pressing a soft kiss to it (good form as he had been taught, the queen would be pleased with him).

The boy congratulated himself on his cleverness when his little mouse smiled and nodded in greeting at his hailing her with her nickname as she passed him and his flock the following morning. The dark-haired boy’s gaze was curious as he looked at him over his shoulder and then leaned close to confide something to the girl. Peter gnashed his teeth at his back, displeased, becoming distracted only when a girl pulled insistently on his arm. 

Tonight there was a primrose at his place, and he tucked it onto the front of his jacket instead of hiding it away like all the others. He was surrounded by happy thoughts, and only the tidings that the regiment would be leaving the day after tomorrow dampened his sense of flying.

~~~ 

To his disappointment the little mouse was not with her friends making flower chains as was her custom when he sought her out. The others claimed she had mentioned taking a walk and motioned towards the edge of the forest. 

He found her easily, seated by the stream, absently tossing pebbles into the bubbling water. She rose at his approach and walked with him, nodding at his news (word spread quickly through the village). He shared his excitement about leaving on the morn, wondering about the journey, what they will find at the capital. Running out of breath, he turned to her expectantly. 

Smiling almost sadly, the girl pointed out the children will miss him, particularly as they wished to hear the two of them tell more stories.

Will only the children miss him, Peter asked, eyes twinkling.

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she claimed he knew very well many shall miss him, the girls for instance.

And she? 

Wordlessly she nodded, and gave him a heliotrope and sweet pea flower from her apron pocket, her eyes sliding away from his. In return he solemnly presented her with a ragweed branch. Peter watched her frown in puzzlement, turning the weed in her hand for a moment, before suddenly growing still. Her cheeks first turned red as an apple and next drained completely of color. Her name was halfway out of his mouth as he caught a swift, panicked flash of blue eyes, and then she was sprinting off. It took a heartbeat until he was running after her. Despite the uneven ground and his unfamiliarity with the area, his longer legs gave him the advantage and in a short time he caught the girl by the arm and carefully pushed her against a tree trunk.

She trembled, from exhaustion, mortification, and something else. Gulping in air, Peter bent his head to see her face. There was that old look from their first meeting, fearful and ashamed, shrinking into herself. In defeat waiting for the laugher at her being the fool, having his fun at her expense. 

Instead of laughs and mockery he gave her reassurances – her regard genuinely, completely _was_ returned. How he kept all her flowers, was jealous of the boy she was with (John, her brother it turned out to be), realized what the flowers meant when he remembered being told of such old practices once, and unexpectedly found himself falling in turn as he gaze lingered on her and she plagued his thoughts and dreams. In between his words he placed chaste kisses on her hands, brow, cheeks, and top of her head. And when his little mouse, his Wendy, looked up at him with trust and belief, he felt he had reached his quest’s end.

~~~ 

The main square was afire with activity and noise and tension: the regiment was leaving shortly. None of it pierced the bubble surrounding Peter and Wendy in the middle of it. Her gaze was clear, sad as she handed him eucalyptus and edelweiss and requested in a trembling tone he be careful. 

The stars in his eyes changed to two hot sparks as his expression grew nearly offended, huffing he shall return. He will not lose her that soon or easily, he promised, tone softening, if she will wait for him. 

Her smile was brilliant and answered enough for Peter. 

As he gave her a forget-me-not, his lips gentle against hers sealed the promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower meanings in order of appearance:
> 
> Mayflower – Welcome
> 
> Gloxinia - Love at First Sight 
> 
> Fern – Fascination 
> 
> Goldenrod (Solidago) - Encouragement, Motivation , Good Fortune, Success
> 
> Flowering almond - Hope
> 
> Dandelion – Faithfulness, Happiness
> 
> Lilac – First Love
> 
> Agrimony - Thankfulness, Gratitude
> 
> Gardenia - You're Lovely, Secret Love 
> 
> Lily of the valley - Sweetness, Humility, Purity 
> 
> Orange blossom - Innocence, Eternal Love 
> 
> Saxifrage - Affection
> 
> Sweet william - Perfection, Grant me one smile 
> 
> Scarlet zinnia – Constancy 
> 
> Honey flower - Sweet and secret love
> 
> Daisy - Innocence, Loyal Love, I'll Never Tell, Purity
> 
> Primrose - I can't live without you
> 
> Heliotrope - I adore you, Devotion
> 
> Sweet pea flower – Departure, Goodbye
> 
> Ambrosia (ragweed) - Your Love is Reciprocated 
> 
> Eucalyptus - Safeguard, Protection
> 
> Edelweiss – Courageous 
> 
> Forget-me-not – True Love, Memories


	4. Star Dust

Peter Gallagher’s smile grows bigger and cockier – the very smile that has set countless young hearts flying and racing – as he returns the greetings that meet his entrance into the room. Today there is something darker in it though, lurking just under the surface. Hazel eyes twinkle under the bright lights, yet move about restlessly, irritably. He takes in the two stools set in the center of the room, and the organized chaos surrounding the director, producer, and casting director seated nearby at a table. 

The youth carelessly bends the script in his hands as his smile changes into a pout. Even the knowledge his being summoned unexpectedly back by the studio is for this – _his_ – film does not lighten his broodiness. 

Three weeks ago he was assured that it had been all decided who would be his co-star. His childlike excitement was observed with bemusement by all. It had grown so dull having girl after girl after girl audition (no matter how big fans they were of him), reading through the scenes over and over; it is one of his least favorite parts of being a popular film star – and finally to be free from it all! 

So he took a vacation, went home. Truly it had been a very long since he was home. He rediscovered the magic that made King Kong appear not so mighty, and Tarzan not as wild; but he did not learn the secret of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. 

However, to his surprise, Peter had not been completely content during his stay. He no longer was followed by annoying photographers, didn’t have directors nagging him about knowing his lines, and wasn’t being chased after by his fretting agent. Despite being in his old haven, happy as a child, free to do as he willed…he’d grown antsy. He had not lacked for adventure, play, or companionship, and yet…

“No one out there knows about this place. Perhaps it is not quite so much fun keeping it all to oneself,” the tiny lady who looked after his needs had once commented. The roll of her knowing eyes and twitching mouth went unnoticed. 

_Was that it?_

Before the boy had any opportunity to muse over it, his agent Smee Richard Thomas had tumbled in. He was filled with reprimands for Peter not leaving word where he could be found (“I did not want to be found!”), and orders he must return _out there_ immediately due to his film (“But they said…!”).

So now he is back: to read with more potential Janes. 

“We’ll have you do scene nine, the first meeting,” the director informs his young star as Peter takes a seat on one of the stools. Catching the boy’s dark scowl, and well aware of his feelings regarding that scene, the man quickly adds, “It is just three girls, Peter.” Then he beats a hasty retreat before Peter can voice his displeasure.

Moments later when the first girl is shown into the room, Peter is all politeness, flashing a cocky smile and bowing grandly, receiving a loud giggle and faint blush in return. Tall with black hair and dark eyes, the girl beams brightly at him. 

“I’m Lily,” she says once they are seated on the stools, and boldly leans close towards him, starry-eyed. 

The boy buries himself in his script, only looking up when the director provides some brief instructions to them before the reading begins. Lily reads well, not appearing nervous at all and barely refers to her script. Yet she comes across as too strong-willed, less dreamy than Peter imagines Jane to be. He in turn reacts to her sullenly when he is supposed to be curious in the scene. 

He struggles to remember his manners when Lily’s audition ends and she non-subtly attempts to flirt with him. The dark-haired girl is barely out of the room before the boy grimaces and glances toward the director. He huffs in annoyance when he is ignored. Instead, the director has a discussion with the producer and casting director for several minutes. Peter catches the three men shake their heads and he lets out a silent sigh of relief. That girl was not Jane. 

Peter does a double-take when the second girl enters for her audition. She could grace the cover of a fashion magazine with her thin figure, perfectly made-up face, blond hair, and blue eyes, dressed in a flattering green dress. Seemingly oblivious to the numerous admiring glances cast her way she flashes a wide smile and firmly shakes Peter’s hand, introducing herself as Belle. They exchange a couple jokes as they settle on their stools, the way Peter often does with his friends. 

“You’re like one of my pals, the lost boys,” he proclaims proudly.

Belle’s face falls. Then she huffs before turning her attention to the director calling to them.

Almost from the moment the audition starts with Belle’s line, “Boy, why are you crying?” it goes terribly in Peter’s opinion. He does not try to hide his irritation at how she reads. Belle obviously is trying too hard to play a part rather than simply be it. When it is over she holds out a slip of paper with her phone number on it, and the boy gnashes his teeth at her. 

Frustrated and antsy, Peter is strongly tempted to walk out when the final potential Jane hurries in, Smee at her elbow babbling in his typical fashion. Peter frowns quizzically at the girl. Her plain blouse and skirt and shoes seem sort of shabby, almost too small for her. Wearing no makeup, her brown hair hangs loosely about her shoulders, pulled away from her face with a clip. There is no pride or flirtation in her manner, only wide-eyed wonder at everything. 

“Peter Gallagher,” he states, shifting impatiently on his stool, rolling and unrolling his script.

“Yes, I know. I am Wendy Darling. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” she says politely with a nod.

The boy glances swiftly over at her and nearly bursts out laughing. He has never been called sir before! And she looks to be as young as he is. Peter’s lips twitch and some of the tension weighing on his shoulders eases. 

This time, during the audition things are different. There is a genuineness and innocence in Wendy’s reading, how she reacts to what Peter throws at her. She believes in the story, the characters. 

“I-I cannot fly,” she admits, fear replacing her earlier awe.

“I’ll teach you,” he promises. 

The girl looks at him searchingly and he holds her gaze.

“I’ll teach you to ride the wind’s back and away we go!”

_She **is** Jane_. The sudden realization fills the boy with wonderment as they continue to stare at each other. The spell is broken when the director starts loudly jabbering away, and Peter releases her hand (he did not even know he was holding it). He feels slightly dazed. Is this what it is like with Fred and Ginger? 

He makes a beeline for the table where the director is having yet another discussion with his colleagues. Unable to hear their low conversation, he elbows the casting director impatiently. Finally the producer turns to him.

“Next Friday, a screen test—” 

Peter throws his head back and crows loudly. The amused, weary chuckles of the others only cause him to grin even more and laugh, unable to contain his excitement. But his joyful expression vanishes when he turns to share the happy news and discovers the stool the girl was seated on is empty. Frantically he looks around, spinning in several circles. She is gone! 

“Said she was late…,” a helpful assistant says, and Peter bolts out the door, ignoring the raised voices calling him back.

Seemingly a chorus of twinkling voices urges him on, “Hurry, Peter!” as he races through the building. 

He bursts out the front door. Breathing heavily, looking wildly up and down the sidewalk, he spies the brown-haired girl hurrying off. 

“Wait, lady!” he shouts.

Abruptly she halts and whirls around, flushing with embarrassment when she sees him. 

As Peter starts down the steps to the pavement, he notices a little brown shoe lying on the bottom step. His gaze moves back to the girl, nervously fidgeting, face bright red, and one white-socked foot shoeless. His cocky smile peeks out as he scoops up the shoe, examines it while he strides toward her. 

She stretches out a hand for her shoe, stammering thanks, eyes avoiding his, “Sir” tumbling from her lips. 

“Call me Peter,” the words come out an order (as he used to do ages past) and a shy request (silly boy, never having been rendered nervous by a girl before after the countless others who have thrown themselves at him; but she is nothing like them). 

That – _finally_ – causes her blue eyes to meet his hazel ones. “Peter,” Wendy repeats simply, shyly.

And for a heartbeat he is carried home, can see her there. “Yes,” he whispers. He returns her shoe and watches her kneel and put it on. He grins once she has risen back to her feet. “Come next Friday, you have a screen test!”

She gasps, stunned. A happy beam lights up her face before the expression gradually fades. 

Worry stirring in the pit of his stomach, Peter cocks his head and lifts an inquiring eyebrow. The girl frowns thoughtfully. 

“What _will_ Aunt Millicent say? She doesn’t approve of acting at all, you see. I’m not sure if she’ll let me do it.” Wendy glances at her wrist watch and starts. “Oh, no! I’ll have to run to be on time. But thank you, si—Peter. Today has been wonderful,” she says deeply with a smile that is sad around the edges. She starts to back away from the boy. 

Without thinking, Peter swiftly reaches out and clasps her wrist, grip strong yet gentle. “Wait!” he exclaims. Stepping to the edge of the sidewalk, and quickly checking over his shoulder that she has not run off, he hails a cab. 

He is pleased at her surprised reaction and cries, “Oh, the cleverness of me!” He waves away her protests, instead obtaining from her the address of her aunt, and has a quiet word with the driver, discreetly slipping several pound notes to the man. 

Before helping Wendy into the vehicle, he rests his hands on her shoulders. “You will come for the screen test?” he asks hopefully. 

She nods. “Yes, I will try. I want to,” she adds.

He grins widely, relieved and satisfied, and impulsively places a soft, lingering kiss on her cheek. She stares up at him in amazement when he draws back. 

“I will be waiting, Wendy-lady,” he promises. Lowering his voice, he continues, tone serious, “And if you do not come, I will find you.” Indeed, he won’t let her vanish into thin air now. 

The girl blushes – though not due to embarrassment this time – and warmth spreads through Peter from head to toe when she slowly smiles, her blue eyes sparkling. 

Carefully he assists her into the cab, good form. Wendy nods thankfully, her goodbye just as quiet as Peter’s before he closes the cab door. The boy watches the cab pull away from the curb, waving until it is out of sight. For a long minute he lingers at the edge of the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, seeming to be far away. Sighing, a look of determination crosses Peter’s face, two stars flashing in his eyes as he turns to go back inside the studio, his steps light and carefree.

She’ll be his co-star. She is the one he will share his secret with, and teach her to fly with him…

THE END


End file.
